Spystuck
by UNKOWN SOURCE
Summary: Dave Strider was the best spy that ever existed. The amount of resources the Alternian Empire spent trying to take him down was absurd. Dave was too smart, too skilled, too resourceful. He was the best the contracted spy the CIA and UIS could ever have. Until one day... "We've got a burn notice on you. You're blacklisted." Things got gradually worse for Dave after that. AU.


**Hi guys. First of all, this fanfic, if I decide to continue it, would be very similar in concept to Burn Notice. You could say this fanfic is inspired by it. It would also take elements from the Bourne Series and Hustle. Second of all, this fanfic would move in a very slow pace, so if you want fast paced action, this fanfic is probably not for you. Third of all, this fanfic will be rather Dave-centric. If you don't like Dave-centric Homestuck fanfics, again, this fanfic is probably not for you. You were warned. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Homestuck or any of the characters therein. **

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**Be the Awesome Ex-Spy**

Your name is Dave Strider. You were a spy, until two hours ago when shit hits fan.

**Be the Awesome Ex-Spy two hours ago **

Your name is Dave Strider, but you currently go by the name Davin Stalker. You are a spy. Right now, you're waiting to be picked up by the thugs of a local Troll Warlord. Troll Criminal Militia Groups exist for the same reasons human Private Military Contractors do. They provide additional protection, surveillance and control in their territory for their employers. Unlike human PMCs, however, troll CMGs run a protection racket on their own territory, basically unimpeded by the Troll police. Troll CMGs also run acts of terrorism and sabotage in both troll and human territory, sponsored by, you guessed it, the Alternian Government. In a lot of respects, they act just like intelligence agencies; they spy, they survey, they cultivate intelligence assets, they commit acts of sabotage and terrorism, all for their government's paycheck. They're harder to link to the Alternian Government too, so that's a plus against human Intelligence Agencies. Fortunately for the humans, unlike their Intelligence Agencies, Troll CMGs are much less organized, and their Warlords aren't directly supervised, so they can be bribed into certain deals. It's a tradeoff all governments have to make between deniability and controllability.

Unfortunately, to make a deal with a Troll Warlord, you have to meet with him. And because of your lack of bargaining power, he sets where the deal takes place. If he wants you to wait under the hot Tau-Ceti sun in your favorite black suit with a hint of red, then you have to wait. You like waiting, anyway. You like to arrive very early. It gives you a chance to make sure it's not a trap, to make sure you're not being followed, to look for and finalize exit routes if it is indeed a trap.

You just wish the deal happens at night instead of midday. Aren't trolls nocturnal, anyway? The Warlord's probably just doing this in the middle of the day to make you uncomfortable, to remind you that you are in the less powerful position in this deal. What an asshole.

He also could've picked a place easier to reach. The abandoned factory in the middle of Troll territory is ridiculously hard to reach. You lost count of how many Troll Policeraters? Policeracors? Police-somethings you had to sneak around just to get to this place. It stinks, too.

Oh well, just play it cool, Dave Strider. Just play it cool.

**Evil Lackeys: Arrive**

Oh look, there they are! The thugs that will bring you to your target. Finally they arrive.

The military jeep with a mounted machine gun is a rather conspicuous way to travel, but you have to admit, the Warlord has style. Nothing screams 'do not mess with me' more than an armored vehicle with superior weaponry. You bet that the jeep's armor is impervious to anything the local Troll Police has, and that the machine gun can penetrate the armor of any Troll Police vehicle. It's quite obvious to you that Troll Criminal Militia Groups are better funded by the Troll Government than the Troll Police. That doesn't factor the money they get from illegal dealings and protection rackets, too. To be fair, though, the Troll Police is probably corrupt. And to be more fair, the Alternian legal system is complete crap, too.

The black-tinted window of the front passenger seat slides down, revealing a muscular troll wearing a blue armored vest adorned with his symbol above the gang crest.

"What took you so long?" you ask in perfect monotone. You are fluent in Alternian, just one of the things that make you undeniably awesome.

"You look different from the picture," the blue blood asks, sidestepping your question.

"You mean the skin and the hair? I dyed them. Do I look any different from the picture if you change the colors? I don't think so."

"I know that," the blue blood gruffly replies, "get in."

You get into the Jeep.

**Arrive at Warlord's Base of Operations**

You step out of the jeep and stretch your arms, looking completely defenseless.

Eight guards at the front door, probably four at the back, plus one armored jeep with four trolls, not bad for a security detail. Sixteen guards in total. Two exit routes. If shit hits fan, there's no way you can fight yourself out. Especially because once you enter this run-down apartment building, you'll be surrounded.

You enter the apartment building anyway.

The four trolls escorting you in the jeep continue to escort you, no doubt to the Warlord himself. The creaking sound of the wooden floor beneath you gives the impression that this building has been abandoned for more or less five years. The previous inhabitants must have been forced out when the Warlord moved in, no doubt at gunpoint.

There are no lifts. Which, although annoying, isn't a problem. It's not a high apartment building anyway.

You arrive at the Warlord's room.

Meet Farazi Zavrek, Tau-Ceti Two, Fifty-sixth region wannabe warlord.

Unlike the rest of the Apartment building, the Warlord's room looks like a room from a five star hotel. No, scratch that, it looks like a damn penthouse. The Warlord must have converted the entire top floor into his personal room. The floors are laid with marble, the walls are painted in dark blue, gold is inlaid everywhere you see. And this is just the damn living room. The Blue-blooded Warlord you are looking for is sitting splayed on a sofa, legs forward on a footstool, flanked by two female Trolls. Burgundy bloods, you think. Troll Warlords are ultimately chosen by the Alternian government, usually Cerulean or Indigos who like having multiple lower-blooded sex slaves. Sexual slavery is legal in Alternian law, but associating sexually with someone too low on the hemospectrum is bound to get a high blood executed or socially alienated, although the latter is more likely to happen than the former. Being outside of the laws reach, like being a Warlord, solves this problem for many Blue bloods.

Usually, you would be turned on by the sight of two women in skimpy lingerie, but the sheer amount of revulsion the detestable man in between them inspires to you completely turns you off. Role playing is okay, you guess, but actual slavery? Fuck that. Troll society is messed up.

Your eyes cross theirs, and fuck, your heart is wrenched. You can read body language better than you can read English. You know that they want to be as far away from this place as possible. You also know they don't have a choice. They're either legal slaves, which means they have to work until they pay of their ever-increasing debt to their employer, or they're illegal slaves, which means that they have to work unless they want a bullet to the head courtesy of their master. It's probably the latter rather than the former. You don't show anything, no pity, no empathy, nothing. You are as cold as ice, because that's what you're trained to do. Don't empathize with anyone. Emotions have no part in spywork. You ice the cry of injustice in your mind, and you focus back to the mission.

Sometimes, you think your super secret spy training killed a part of you.

"So, you're UIS?"

UIS stands for United Intelligence Services, the umbrella organization for all human intelligence organizations. What most Trolls don't realize is that there isn't such a thing as a human government. There are multiple, hundreds of human governments that make up the United Nations, which, in turn, is the governing body the Alternian Empire associates with. The human military are still separate. The human authorities are still separate. And, the human intelligence organizations are still separate. The UIS is nothing more than an organization that facilitates the transfer of intelligence in between nations, and also coordinates intelligence efforts so that results can be met more efficiently. You work for the CIA, but even that description is inaccurate. Government bureaucracies are too inefficient, too slow, with too many restrictions, so they usually contract field work to private contractors. You are technically under the employ of one of those independent contractors, although you still receive orders from the CIA. But enough exposition, back to the plot.

"For this negotiation, let's just say, yes."

Since explaining stuff usually takes too long anyway, though, most spies don't really care to correct anyone when they call them UIS agents. You don't, either.

"So, what are you offering me?" he says, all smug and taunting, as if what you're offering him could not possibly interest him in any way.

You know all that confidence and smugness is a mere façade, a way to gain an advantageous position in a negotiation. You also know that he's a greedy, self-entitled, lazy fuck. He'll accept.

"Here's how it works, I give you twenty million Alternian credits, more than what you earn in a decade, plus monthly stipends from the UIS, for two things: First, you guarantee protection of the Fifty-fifth sector geothermal power plants, the one near your borders. Second, you provide us with reliable intel when we ask you of it. The Condesce doesn't need to know, no one needs to know but us. You get a shit load of money, we get you to stop attacking our power plants, and the Troll authorities won't try to kill you because they don't know anything. Sounds good?" you reply in perfect monotone, face impassive.

The Warlord flashes you a grin, all teeth and smugness.

"My loyalty is not for sale."

You fire your own half-smile at him, intent on burning down his bravado with verbal annihilation.

"How about your fellow Warlords' loyalty? I'm sure your friendly neighbor Kareta would love to sell her loyalty. Twenty million Alternian credits can buy a lot of weapons and pay a lot of men. Maybe the first thing she'll do with that money is send you a gift basket, possibly full of primed explosives."

You play the Warlord's weaknesses. He has a lot of rivals, and just like any typical warlord, he can't afford to be behind the power curve. Those too far behind will be killed, easily. The thing about using crime rings as intelligence sources is that they tend to try to kill each other. Apparently the Alternian government has not yet figured out that most of the assassinations of their sources are not the work of human counter-intelligence, but of the infighting of their own intelligence organizations/crime rings.

His façade slips momentarily, before he forces his face back into artificial confidence and smugness.

You smirk, telling him that yes, you did notice his façade slipping and yes, you do know that you now have the upper hand in this negotiation.

"I like your style, spy, I like your style. How much on monthly stipends are we talking about here?"

"Half a million a month, plus bonuses on good information."

"Looks like you have yourself a deal."

You slide your smirk back to a neutral expression.

"I'll transfer the money in now. Last chance to back out," you say.

"The account number is 3450778243000," he replies, taking out his husktop and accessing his bank account information page.

You take out one of your many hand phones and call your agency. The hand phone reroutes the connection to your earpiece, allowing you to call hands free.

"Control, I need you to transfer twenty million Alternian credits to an Alternian bank account, account number 3450778243000."

You wait for the control agent to ask you the mission code and password before initiating the transfer. It's what usually happens. Unfortunately, that's not what will happen today.

"Is this agent Davin Stalker? I'm sorry sir, but we've got a burn notice on you. You're blacklisted."

Your brain stops working for a moment. The lull in thinking seems to last forever for you. For others, though, your shock only lasted for about two seconds. Nobody noticed your surprise either. You don't express your emotions if you don't want to.

No matter how good someone is, even he's as good as you are, sometimes shit happens, and your perfect plan ingloriously falls apart. That's why you always need to have a backup plan. An exit strategy in case proceeding forward by improvisation would be too costly or too risky.

You sinisterly smile to the Warlord. This time, it's your turn to lie. Your turn to put on a façade.

You'll show him how it's done.

"Warlorderer Farazi Zavrek, you are hereby arrested for treason against the Alternian Empire," you say, all suave, smug and sadistic.

The Warlord's face lights up in a very close approximation of 'oh shit'.

"I have conclusive evidence in the form of an audio recording, and I have reported your treason to the local Alternian government five minutes ago. You will now come with me to stand trial. You have no right to remain silent. All my questions will be answered in the way I want it to be, whether under extreme duress or under torture. Come with me willingly and I will grant you less pain."

The trick to deception is to quickly move things along. To hurry things to the conclusion and to rush all your lies and mistruths so that the person you're deceiving has no time to check your claims. When under extreme shock and stress, people tend to try to fix the situation without evaluating it first. Add in a limited time frame, and most of the time they don't even bother to think about evaluating the situation.

"In fifteen minutes, the audio recording I have just sent will reach the planetary government's office, and in two hours, the evidence will reach the Condesce's court. You have thirty seconds to decide whether or not to come with me willingly… starting now. Decide wisely, traitor." You say the last bit with as much venom as you can muster.

"But, but… you're UIS!"

"I'm a double agent. I've been under the Condesce's employ for ten years. Twenty seconds, Zavrek!"

"Wait, wait! I can make a deal! Please, you gotta listen to me!"

"What's done is done. Fifteen seconds!"

"I can offer you cash. A bit of land. Monthly stipends! Hell, I'll even pitch in these two ladies! Just- shit man!"

At this point, the Warlord is stuttering and sweating bullets. His guards and your escorts are equally nervous, although they don't show it much. Once the psyche of your target is broken, then you can mention terms and negotiate. Do it anytime before that, and he'll be on to you, and your deception will collapse. If possible, pressure the target into making the offer instead of making an offer yourself. It tends to convince the target of your identity better.

You fake a contemplative look.

"Keep the land and monthly stipends. That'll just blow my cover. How much cash are we talking about?"

"Eighty grand… it's a lot of money."

"Make it a hundred, and we have a deal."

"Alright, deal. You, Hesha, get the key for these slaves' collars."

One of the guards rushes into a private room, likely the Warlord's bedroom, to get the keys for the slave collars. He hands the keys to you. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the buttons on the keys are probably there to either shock the slaves to submission if necessary, or blow an explosive attached to the collar to kill them. The first thing you do after getting out of this place is releasing them. Definitely.

**Dave Strider: Wrap Things Up and Get the Fuck Out of There **

The transaction was fast. You made it fast. You can't let the Warlord or any of his cronies catch on. In a few minutes, you're driving one of the Warlord's expensive cars into human territory, the two _ex_-slaves on the back seat.

Soon, you're in human territory. It's in the afternoon, so everyone is busy doing their jobs or running errands. Luckily, there isn't a lot of cars near the human-troll border, mostly because criminal trolls keep moving past the border to hijack cars parked near it. You throw away your cell phone the moment you cross the human border. You can't have anyone using it to track you down. Cell phones can be remotely activated and used as a bugging device as needed. You should know since you've had ISA guys track down enemy spies for you by remotely activating their cells and using them as a bug. One minute completely off the radar, the other minute on every radar in existence. Speaking of which, you still owe those guys from the Intelligence Support Activity a favor. You promise to stay alive, even if only to repay them someday. Those guys are awesome.

You decide that now is a good time to have a conversation with the two ex-slaves you saved.

"Hey, girls, listen up. I cannot explain everything right now, but you have to follow my instructions. Here, I'll give you the keys to your collars-"

You toss both keys to them.

"I'll drop you off at Station Twelve. I need you go to the US Police Headquarters at route 43. Tell them you escaped from your _former_ master. Shed a tear or two. That will guarantee your protection from Zavrek. Someone who's _not_ from the police will ask you about me. I need you to point them to route 54. I know the police chief well, and he'll want to meet you both personally. He'd probably know that you couldn't have possibly escaped yourself. His name is Terry. Mention the name 'Davin Stalker' to him, and he'll put two-and-two together. He'll give you an apartment, some money and a job. Aside from him, do _not_ mention me to anyone, are we clear? Seriously, I'm in a lot of deep shit here, and I need your help."

"Are you in trouble because of us?"

You're not sure which one of them told you. Now that you notice, they're similar. Like twins or some shit. You don't really care at this point.

"No, it's not your fault. The phone call I made just now? Instead of initiating the transfer I wanted, the guy I was talking you informed me that I got a burn notice on me. Basically, the powers that be decided that they want to fire me for whatever reason. They'll either try to kill me, or dump me in some godforsaken planet with no hope of going home. It's standard procedure."

"What are you going to do? Is there anything we can do to help?"

"I already told you what you could do to help me. We'll be in Station Twelve in three minutes."

"Wait, before we go our ways, can I know your real name? Not the name you told me to give to the police chief. Your actual name?"

You pause. Spies do not reveal their real name if they can help it. But there's just something about these two. One of them, specifically, the one with her hair down and childlike eyes. You didn't see those eyes back at the Warlord's base. You think it's worth it, getting burned, since it's the only way to get them out. Or maybe that's just your desperation talking, trying to make sense of the world right now. Something about her tells you that you should trust her. Your instinct with people is nearly always reliable. It has to be; otherwise you would have a very short career as a spy.

And you're the best spy around.

"My name is Dave Strider, babe. What's yours?"

"Aradia. Aradia Megido, and this is my... the human term would be twin sister, although we do not reproduce the same way as humans do. Her name is Damara Megido."

"Alright Aradia, pleased to meet you. I know how trolls reproduce, so I know what you're talking about. Genetic clone, right? Happens once in a million times, two eggs hatching with near identical DNA."

You swerve around a corner before continuing your conversation.

"Alright girls, we'll be there in one minute. Look, I don't have a lot of clothes right now. So here, one of you should take my jacket. The other should take my shirt."

You take off both your jacket and your shirt. Your jacket is black, while your shirt is bright red. It's an embarrassment to let them both walk around with only a shirt or a jacket, but you don't have a lot of options right now. You've already wasted enough time driving them to the station. If you waste more time, the intelligence community would triangulate your location before you can escape this planet.

You don't want to find out whether or not they'll kill you or dump you at a godforsaken planet.

One minute later, and both Megidos are in your clothes and walking towards Station Twelve. It's a beautiful piece of modern architecture, all sleek lines and white walls. Both Megidos are being stared at, but no one makes a move to bother them. Most people simply ignore them, even the few trolls who live in Human territory to escape the Condesce's rule. They can take it from here. If your instructions were unclear, they'll improvise.

Ten minutes later, and you arrive at one of your apartments. You always rent several apartments in your city of operations, and each has its own neat gym bag full of supplies, passports, and a handgun plus ammunition for emergencies. Spies aren't Special Forces soldiers. They don't do a lot of violent shit. Most of the assignments are infiltrations, surveillance, stealing information, stealing tech, or recruiting potential assets. Violence tends to stand out and be noticed, spies work in the shadows. Sometimes, though, you need a gun to defend yourself against potential threats. Other times, you get the odd assassination job.

Still, you don't use any of your guns a lot. If someone's trying to kill you, they'll send at least a dozen people after you each armed with at least a submachine gun. On average, they'd be armed with a rifle and equipped with body armor. Good luck trying to fend them off using a handgun. Or, they'll try to poison you. Or set your car to explode. Or booby-trap one of your apartments. Or they'll send a professional assassin who, again, would probably be wearing body armor. You survive those kinds of situation by using your wits, and very rarely do you actually use your handgun. In most assassination jobs, you'll have to get past security, which means you can't smuggle a gun. More often than not, you either have to improvise a weapon after getting past security, or kill the target with your bare hands. Sometimes, you grab one of the security guard's gun after knocking him out. Again, very rarely do you get to use your handgun. Still, better to be safe than sorry.

You enter the gaudy yellow apartment building, and, after a brief search of signs of a break-in, enter your apartment. You grab your gym bag from the wardrobe near the door, lock the door, and rush out to get to your car. Emergency bail-out bags seem to be tedious to set up each time you rent an apartment, but right now, you thank your training and foresight.

You get in your car and turn on the engine. You half-expect the car to suddenly explode, even though you're in and out too fast for someone to wire it in that time. Still, your hands are on the door and your legs tense to lunge out, even though if your car _does_ explode, you can't possibly clear the blast radius in time. Your car engine lights up without a problem, and soon, you're driving to the nearest warp port. Your plan: warp to a different planet, spend thirty minutes spreading false trails in said planet, then warp into another one. Keep warping and spreading false trails until at least the fiftieth planet you get to. Then, drop out of the grid, use cash only, make no calls from any traceable source, and basically disappear from the rest of the world. You're not sad at all. You've done this a lot of times, every time you do a big job, even though the job couldn't be traced back to you, you disappear for a few months. It's standard security protocol. The relationships you built up before you disappear? You walk away from them. New girlfriend? Walk away. Friendly neighbors? Walk away. A new fiancé? Walk away. They're not really your friends anyway. They're Davin Stalker's, Davis Stroller's, David Saunter's friends. They're never Dave Strider's friends.

Before you became a spy, you were a grifter, a con artist. Your mentor, the guy who noticed your talent in blatant lying, making false expressions and faking body language, the guy who trained and perfected your lying skills, taught you the first rule in being a successful con artist: Don't have anything in your life you can't walk away from in a second. When you were recruited as a spy, your Case Officer was pleasantly surprised that he doesn't have to teach you how to leave your relationships. You were already taught that by your con mentor. Funny, the most important skills you have you didn't learn in spy school; you learnt it being a con artist. Well, con artists and spies are similar enough. They're both professional liars, and they're both criminals.

Walking away is a skill you perfected.

You drive. You drive with purpose, rushing past other vehicles and nearly disobeying traffic laws in the process. You drive towards your destination.

You didn't expect the car suddenly swerving from the lane going the opposite direction.

You didn't expect the car to swerve directly towards you.

After the first two unexpected events, however, you did expect the car to be unmanned. And it is. You're going at sixty kilometers an hour, and so, you reckon, is the other car.

**Dave Strider: Black Out**

The only thing you remember next is the airbags of your car puffing up, slamming towards your face and knocking you out. You were dimly aware that one of your hands, the one which is supposed to move the stick, is grabbing hold of your emergency supplies gym bag.

You black out.

**Dave Strider: Regain Consciousness**

"Where am I?" you ask to no one in particular.

As expected, no one answered. You sit up, the bed you're on creaking in protest as you do so. You're not in jail, but you are in some kind of crappy apartment. It seems Trollish in design, being yellow and shit. A Troll apartment catering to humans…. Huh. That means you're not in a Godforsaken primitive planet. That's a good start. Let's see how much good news you'll get today. There's a letter on a desk beside the bed. You open it and read its contents.

Welcome to Alternia. We'll be in touch.

_Oh shit._

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